The Festival 2: Revelation
by Silverfish Imperitrix
Summary: This story is a direct sequel to Lovecraft's "The Festival." When a man takes revenge for the death of his nephew, he must travel to the devil haunted town of Kingsport, where a horrible secret is revealed.


It was Samhain, what some men call Halloween, and the sound of the surf on the Eastern shore told me that I had reached my destination. The road ahead curved steeply upward, leading to the ancient cemetery atop the windswept hill, its crypts and sepulchers outlined like black corpse teeth against the darkening sky. It was Samhain, what some men call hallowe'en, and I shivered at the thought of what lay before me.

All through the long trip from Boston my mind had returned again and again to the task at hand, the way your tongue will return to the cavity left by a rotted tooth. And as I paused in my long climb, the moon, risen bloated and angry, burst through the clouds to light the landscape with a ghastly yellow corpse light that drained all color from the nefandous and noisome surroundings. It was then that the first of the torches appeared over the far ridge, their destination the same as my own.

Once more I struggled upward. I was the last of my kind; no one else would return this eve to what my ancestors had called "The Revelation." It was a ceremony as old as time, as ancient as the festival that had taken the sanity, and then the life of my nephew, Richard Carter. His death was the sole reason for my being at this lonesome and devil haunted place. I had sworn an oath to his father that I would shield the boy from the horrors of our ancestry; and failing this, I would take my revenge on those who had brought about his demise.

My nephew had been pulled, half drowned and nearly dead, from the frozen waters of the bay the day after Christmas 2 years gone. When he had awoken in the hospital, he had told a nigh incoherent tale of a gathering he had attended Christmas night. The Doctors and nurses had tried to calm him, even going so far as to bring to him a copy of the dread Necronomicon. In the pages of the book he had found a passage that had confirmed his worst fears as to what had befallen him on that fear haunted night. Instead of soothing him, it had sent him on the path to his incarceration in the mental hospital and eventual death. I had visited him there shortly before he died, and he had told me what had befallen him, things he had dared not speak of to his doctors. What they would not, could not believe, I did. And on the day of his funeral, I vowed vengeance upon those who had brought about his destruction.

The Festival only occurred once every hundred years, but it was not the only ceremony held in that accursed town. The books told of another gathering, held once each decade, known only as "The Revelation." Through study and occult channels I learned when it would be held, and tonight was that night. For years I had felt the pull of these ancient ceremonies and had studiously avoided them. For even though I am a student of many strange and esoteric arts, there are some things better left buried in the past. But now here I was, torch in hand, my mission of vengeance driving me towards a confrontation with those I felt responsible for my nephews death.

As I topped the rise, the lights of the city below appeared through the darkening clouds. The sea pounded against the rotting pilings of the wharves, the dark eternal sea that concealed its many secrets from the eyes of man. And brooding over the cold light of the houses, the towering steeple of an ancient church spread its mocking shadow over the homes in the antiquated city.

At the fork in the road I was presented with two choices. To continue on into the town, or turn my eyes upward once again to the cemetery that hung like a vulture to the side of the hill. Without hesitation I continued my journey upward. Crowded around the mouth of the cemetery, the torches of the acolytes fluttered and smoked. I was the last to arrive; now the ceremony could begin.

At the gate I was greeted by the leader of the group, a tall man dressed in hooded robe and wearing a hideous carven mask. With a curiously flabby hand he indicated that he was a mute, and beckoned me to follow him into the graveyard. As I passed the others fell in behind me, and I could only shudder at the half guessed reason for their silence, for not only did they not speak, but I could not hear the sound of their footsteps on the hard packed earth.

Through the ancient graveyard, past the tombs and crypts of the denizens of this accursed town, we made our way to a patch of unconsecrated ground. It was the "Potter's Field," where the lost, the criminal and those who had dedicated their lives to the dark arts were interred. It was a lonely, miserable place, where the only thing to indicate the presence of the graves were scattered clods of hastily overturned earth.

One of the acolytes had brought a spade with him, which he threw at my feet. The leader indicated that it was my duty to dig, pointing at a patch of ground that seemed less weed choked than the surrounding area. Handing him my torch, I picked up the shovel and furiously attacked the half frozen sod. It was hard work; the ground was dry and hard and constantly turned the blade away. But at last I managed to break through the tough outer layer into the softer ground below. It only took a few more minutes before my blade, with a dull thud, struck the half rotted wood of a cheap casket.

A weird moan passed through the assembled worshipers, somehow more horrifying than their previous silence. Quickly I scraped away the earth that held the lid closed, but before I could raise it to reveal the contents of the box, hands that were horribly soft and pulpy grabbed me and pulled me from the hole.

I watched in silence as my fellow acolytes crowded around the newly disinterred grave. From the burial place something was pulled out, something that mewled horribly and writhed as if in great pain. A mask, gloves and robe were produced, and it was quickly covered. The huddled acolytes stepped back, revealing a new member who wobbled and stumbled like a newborn colt trying to get to its feet.

The leader came up to me and handed me my torch. He motioned to me that the ceremony was over and that I was to leave. But in my foolhardiness I pushed past him and approached the new acolyte. He had gained some semblance of balance and stood silently in front of me. Before I could be stopped, I stepped forward and ripped the mask from its head.

Madness rides the night wind... regeneration born of a verminous hunger...unholy survivors that ought never to see the light of day... My scream must have awakened the sleepers of that accursed, demon haunted town. I staggered back, the bile rising in my throat. Without thinking, I took my torch and set fire to the rotten rags that covered its hideous carcass.

It went up in flames, a holy fire that cleansed the earth of a hideous abomination. There are things that walk, and things that crawl, and a merciful God should always see that one does not beget the other. In the confusion I attacked the others, setting them afire with my torch. They tried to run, but I was too fast for them, and when I was done a dozen smoldering corpses were all that was left.

What happened next I can't be sure. I must have staggered out of that abominable reliquary and down the hill, for the next morning I awoke in my car. In the light of day it all seemed a horrible nightmare. Steeling myself, I went back to that graveyard on the hill, but there was no sign of what had occurred on the previous night. Had it all been a dream? I try to tell myself that, but at night, when the nightmares come, I know that what I saw was the truth.

It's hard for me to sleep now. Sometimes I feel as if my sanity is beginning to slip away, especially when I think of the horror that may lurk under my very feet. This cannot be the only place where such rituals occur. On how many devil haunted nights have similar events taken place? I dare not think about it or surely I will go mad. This knowledge killed my nephew, but I am stronger than he was. My only hope is that in other parts of the world, there are others who also know and make sure that their wizards are burned to a very fine ash, that nothing is left for the worms to gnaw.

If only I could forget what I saw that night, what I saw when I tore the mask from it's demon haunted head – that pulpy, pinkish, pulsating mass, striated with darker rings, that verminous countenance where there should have been a face!


End file.
